The Cat Who Ruled England
by GeorgyannWayson
Summary: The saying goes that you don't own a cat, but that a cat owns you. Well, Mycroft Holmes isn't about to let such a creature rule his life- not if he can help it, at least (a special holiday story) *COMPLETE*
1. Chapter One

_Hello again everybody! This is a special story for a pretty unknown holiday. Today is National Cat Day - a day to celebrate the felines in our lives for those of us that have them! So if you have a cat, be sure to give 'em a big squeeze! If you don't like cats...I'm sorry to say this story may not fit your taste, but you're welcome to stay and read anyway!_

_Please enjoy everyone! And as always, comments are greatly appreciated and welcome!_

* * *

><p><span><strong>The Cat Who Ruled England<strong>

**Chapter One **

It was the ugliest creature that he had ever seen.

Large, orange eyes stared up at Mycroft from an almost pitch black face, intently studying him as he tentatively reached to take the pet carrier from his mother's hands. The animal inside made a small mew - a sound likened to the coo of a dove- and the carrier shifted as weight moved around inside.

"He's a very sweet cat," Mrs. Holmes said as she walked past her son with a dramatic sweep. "I just couldn't stand to let the shelter take him. Margaret was such a nice woman. It's a shame that she went the way she did."

"Heart attack, was it?" Mycroft asked as he shut the front door.

"How did you know - oh, never mind." Mrs. Holmes waved her hand. "I know this is sudden, but I want you to watch over him while everything is being sorted with her will. Shouldn't take longer than a few weeks." A soft mew sounded again.

"Pray tell, why not ask Mrs. Hudson to do your beckoning?" Mycroft set the carrier on the floor. "Surely she would be more equipped to handle this."

"Oh, I could never ask Martha. She has her hands full with Sherlock as it is. And before you say anything," Mrs. Holmes turned to him and pointed her finger. "I'm not about to ask your brother to do it. I would constantly be worried – all those chemicals around the flat. I would be afraid he would get into something dangerous." She looked down to the cat carrier. "Well, go on then, let him out! I'm sure he's eager to stretch his legs and explore his new surroundings."

With a sigh, Mycroft leaned down and opened the door to the carrier. A whoosh of black and orange flew past him, a gentle force of wind hitting him in the face. A skitter of claws sounded down the hall for a moment, and then all was quiet again.

"I do hope its claws don't tear up my carpets," Mycroft said dryly.

Mrs. Holmes shot him a look. "_His _name is 'Sir Snickers'."

Mycroft didn't believe that intelligence could simply disappear from hearing something so ridiculous, but he wondered for a brief moment if he had heard a faint sound of some of his sense leaking from his ears at the announcement. "I'm very sure that cats can't laugh," he finally said.

"He was named after the sweet, of course, don't be silly, Mike." Mrs. Holmes took her jacket off and hung it on the rack. "Come help me with bringing in some things. I bought him a bag of food and some litter for his box-"

"I'm sorry, his what?"

"His litter box – you know, like his loo."

Mycroft froze midstride. "Oh, no," he said after he had somewhat rehinged his jaw and began walking again. "If you think for one minute that I'm about to let an animal defecate in a box in my house, you would be sorely mistaken, _Mother_."

Mrs. Holmes stopped and turned around to stare at her son, crossing her arms. "_Mycroft_," she stressed, "he isn't trained to go outside in the grass. What do you expect him to do, hold it all in?"

"If he can manage it."

Mrs. Holmes rolled her eyes and turned around to walk toward the car again. "Don't worry, I thought ahead and bought one of those Cat Genie contraptions. Cleans itself, you won't even have to mess with cleaning the box."

"That doesn't change the fact that it has to be in my house."

"If you're so worried about it, then have Anthea deal with it. Isn't that what you pay her to do?"

He highly doubted that Anthea would take the new duty of litter box attendant well, but if push came to shove, he would rather her be the victim of the cat's waste product than him. Mycroft helped Mrs. Holmes bring the supplies in and watched from a distance as she put together the Cat Genie in a spare empty room, handing him the manual as she passed by.

"I'll be calling to check up on him."

"Of course you will." Mycroft's lips curled into a sarcastic smile.

"Behave yourself. You never know, you may come to like him."

"Doubtful, but I won't kill your optimism." He escorted her to the door and held her jacket open for her to slip into it.

"Thank you for doing this, Mike." Mrs. Holmes patted his cheek affectionately.

"Yes," he said as he opened the door to let her out. He watched her climb into the car and drive down the driveway. When her car disappeared around the corner, he shut the door, listening for any sign of movement from the cat. But silence only met his ears. _Well, at least he'll leave me alone_, he thought to himself dryly as he walked down the hall to his study. _Maybe this whole affair won't be so bad after all._

* * *

><p>It was in the middle of the night when 'Sir Snickers' decided to make an appearance.<p>

As Mycroft sat at his desk pouring over paperwork for the Georgia Project, he heard a thump and looked to see the cat sitting at the edge of the desk, his majestic red and cinnamon mane puffed out in a grand display of preening. The large orange eyes against his very flat face were bright with curiosity as he carefully studied the human sitting across from him.

_Persians- notorious for posing for attention._ Well, he wasn't about to play admirer to such a narcissistic creature. He looked back down to his lap and sighed, his breathing stopping halfway as 'Sir Snickers' actually began to walk across the desk and flopped down in the middle of it, rolling onto his side to show off the dark mass of fur that was his stomach, his back leg flopping back dramatically with an air of grace.

_A blatant sign of trust._

Mycroft blinked. There was absolutely no reason that the cat had to trust a human that he literally met in passing only a few hours earlier. Maybe it had something to do with those senses that people said animals had, but even then. What was the sense in his actions?

_There isn't any._

With a shake of his head, Mycroft looked back down to the file, continuing to work until he was practically about to fall asleep in his chair. When he leaned back to rub his temples, the cat opened his eyes and began to thump his tail gently on the desk.

"Well," Mycroft started after a few seconds of pause. "I assume that you know by now that you and I are being forced to cohabitate until your fate has been decided." 'Sir Snickers' stared. "However, I refuse to call you by that ridiculous name you've been sacked with, 'Sir Snickers'. Now let's see; what could I call you?" Mycroft's eyes scanned around the office, names jumping out at him from all different places, but as his eyes rested on a bookend of Sir Winston Churchill, the cat rolled to sit up and mewed, as though he was sensing that an announcement was about to be made.

"I'll call you Winston while you're here."

The cat's tail began to make grand sweeps across the loose papers on the desk, causing them to fly through the air and to the ground. "I suppose that means you approve. Good." Mycroft got up and walked around to start cleaning up the mess. The cat jumped down from the desk and mewed again, rubbing up against Mycroft's leg. He groaned inwardly; apparently, Winston didn't understand that suits were not items to decorate with cat hair.

"Stop that." He made a motion to chase Winston off, who promptly hopped a good couple of feet away and watched him again. "We'll need to have a discussion about where your fur can and can't go at some point." He set the papers down on the desk and left the room, shutting off the light as he went by. In the dark, Mycroft walked down the hall to his room, his mind already coming up with a list that he needed to assign to Anthea and the rest of his staff-

He grabbed the doorframe to his bedroom in surprise, his heart nearly jumping in his throat; something had made him trip! Feeling for the light in the bedroom, he switched it on to see Winston looking up at him from by his feet.

"You're not gaining any ground with trying to put yourself under someone's foot. And furthermore, you're not sleeping in here." Mycroft pointed to the empty bedroom. "Go-"

With the speed of a bullet, Winston ran into the bedroom and practically sailed under the bed. Mycroft sighed and ran a hand down his face, massaging the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. _Well, I suppose I don't have a choice in the matter; as long as he stays under the bed_. Trying his best not to let himself dwell upon the fact that he had in theory lost territory to a cat, Mycroft got ready for bed and as he was leaving the bathroom a few minutes later, he paused and held back the insane urge to sigh for the umpteenth time that night. Winston was on the bed and making himself comfortable by the pillows, kneading the mattress and purring as loud as he could.

"Excuse me."

Winston looked up and continued to knead in contentment, his claws pulling and ripping at the duvet. "If you're going to sleep in here, you're going on the floor. Down." The cat promptly jumped to the floor and slunk under the bed again. "Just stay under there for the night if you would be so kind." With those last words, Mycroft climbed into bed and shut off the lamp on the bedside table, sleep claiming him almost as soon as his head hit the pillow. And thankfully, Winston didn't seem to protest against the order to keep his place under the bed and away from Mycroft for the night.

* * *

><p>"He's so cute."<p>

Mycroft looked from the newspaper he was scanning over and rolled his eyes. Anthea was scratching Winston's chin and ears, the cat's purring so loud that it could've vibrated the whole table that he was perched on.

"I like him," she continued with a smile. "He's so friendly and his coat is gorgeous." She ran a hand down Winston's back and he arched up at her touch.

"I suppose so."

Winston mewed in protest as Anthea stopped her affections, reaching to tap her arm with one of his black paws. "I never thought I would see the day when you had a pet."

"He's not my pet, I'm just cat-sitting or whatever you want to call it. As soon as I can get a chance, I'm going to be rid of him."

"Well, I could take him if you're so inclined to give him up."

A pause. "Your flat is hardly fit for a cat," he finally said.

"I think I can manage to find some room for him-"

"No, it's fine. I don't want to burden you. Besides, I've already deemed you in charge of the litter box should the Cat Genie malfunction and that should be more than enough work for you if it comes to pass."

Anthea scoffed, but smiled. "Why does that not surprise me?" She reached to pet Winston's head. "So does Sherlock know about this?"

"No, and if I can help it, I don't want him to know. I have enough on my mind as it is. Hopefully, Mrs. James's family will find her will before Sherlock decides to pay a visit."

With a chuckle, Anthea picked up her purse and phone. "Knowing your brother, sir, I highly doubt you'll be able to keep this a secret for very long. Let's hope that someone gets murdered or something; that should keep him busy enough to forget about visiting you."

Mycroft scoffed. "If only that were true."

"I'll tell the staff you'll be in tomorrow. I'll say you're sick."

"I never get sick."

"Do you really want me to tell them that you're staying home because of a cat?"

"Sick it is, then," Mycroft said after a moment's pause. With one last pat to Winston's head, Anthea left and everything was still and quiet again. The headlines of the papers pulled Mycroft's concentration away if only for a minute, and when it came back to the world around him, a soft drinking sound met his ears.

He folded a part of the newspaper back and reached to pull his cup of tea away from Winston quickly. The cat licked his lips and sneezed, obviously quite satisfied with what he just tasted.

"Is nothing sacred with you?" Mycroft asked with a scowl as he set the newspaper down and got up with the teacup in his hand. _This_, he thought to himself as he refreshed his tea, _is going to be a long few weeks._

* * *

><p><em>To be continued...<em>


	2. Chapter Two

**Chapter Two**

As the week passed, Mycroft found that entertaining a feline houseguest was actually quite the challenge. In utter boredom from hours of being by himself, Winston had taken to the Italian leather sofa in the sitting room and practically torn one side of it to shreds. In slight exasperation, Mycroft mentioned it to Anthea in passing and she immediately suggested investing in a scratching post.

"And you better not just get any old cheap one," she had said sternly. "He's a breed that's used to nice things. You need to make it appealing to him and fit for royalty." And that's how Mycroft had found him in Pet City spending €120 on a two-storey scratching post that was so cleverly named a Climb and Play Activity Center. Winston seemed pleased with his new target, and thus the sofa was spared further torture.

But with one problem solved, another quickly showed itself in the form of hairballs.

"You know, it's bound to happen with longhair breeds," Anthea said one night as the maid she had hired to clean the carpets of the many stains caused by Winston took her leave. "You could always give him something to help move them along."

"Or I could shave him," Mycroft replied.

"That's a solution," Anthea agreed with a nod as she gave Winston a sympathetic pat on the head. "He has such a beautiful coat, though." Her face fell at Mycroft's indifferent glance. "I'll make a call to a groomer in the morning."

"Please do."

After Anthea left, Mycroft settled down in the armchair under the lamp with a book and Winston took his usual spot in the pile of blankets by the chair to sleep. It was such a quaint arrangement between them, but as long as it worked to stop the cat for hunting for something to destroy, Mycroft supposed that he could deal with it.

It seemed like ages passed before a sound broke through the stillness of the house: clicks of the front door lock unlocking. _Of course he would; why in the world would he even bother to knock? _Mycroft sighed and looked to Winston who was looking wide-eyed in the direction of the sound.

"You're about to meet your human counterpart." Mycroft set his book aside on the table and simply waited. The front door slammed open after a pause and Sherlock strode in as though he owned the entire neighborhood, tossing his coat on the coatrack as he passed by it. "Hello, brother dear," he said with a cheesy cheerfulness.

"Tell me, would it be too much to ask that you knock and wait for me to answer my own front door?"

Sherlock looked thoughtful at the question. "Why?" he finally asked after a few seconds.

"Because as hard as this might be for you to believe, I highly value my privacy and would like to have a choice as whether I let you in my house or not."

"Oh, don't even start to-" Sherlock paused as his eyes met the curious expression of Winston, who mewed politely in friendly greeting. A long second passed in which Mycroft could practically hear the gears in Sherlock's head running so fast that he was surprised that smoke wasn't coming out of his ears. With a deep breath, Sherlock made a face and then:

"What in the hell is that?" he asked, pointing to the cat.

"Why, I'm inclined to believe that it's a cat, brother dear." Mycroft's lips curled into a sarcastic smile as Sherlock's eyes slid to him in annoyance. "Would you care to enlighten me with another casual observation from that brilliant mind of yours?"

Sherlock chose to ignore that and stepped closer to Winston, making a face of slight disgust. "It's hideous."

"A standard of the modified form of the breed, I'm afraid." Mycroft got up and walked to the mini bar to pour himself a drink. "Peke-face is what it's called, if I'm not mistaken."

Sherlock leaned to get a closer look. "This is Mrs. James's cat."

"He _was_. She died recently, and Mummy brought him to stay here until things were sorted with her will."

Sherlock looked up. "And you actually agreed to this?"

"Knowing our mother, do you really think I had a choice in the matter?" Sherlock briefly smiled. "At any rate, he's well-behaved enough. Has a horrid habit of sleeping in clean laundry and clawing up everything that he can get his paws on, though."

Winston got up with a dramatic stretch and reached toward Sherlock, who squat down to offer his hand. "Seems friendly," he said as Winston rubbed his cheek on his fingertips

"A little too friendly at times."

Winston began to purr like a motorboat as Sherlock scratched his ears and chin. Mycroft studied his brother's reactions with a hawk-like eye, and in that expression, he saw a very brief glimmer of something from the past – an affection likened to one that was shared with the family dog, Redbeard.

"Hm." Sherlock stood up again and looked around. "Where's all his toys?"

"He has a scratching post to play with."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You know nothing about cats."

"Oh, and you do?"

"He needs more than a cheap ball on a string to play with." Sherlock turned around to walk back to the coatrack to grab his coat, donning it with a dramatic sweep. "Next time I come over, I'll bring some extra playthings for him."

"Next time?"

Mycroft felt himself cringe a little on the inside as the foyer echoed with the slam of the front door. Pandora's Box had officially been opened; getting Sherlock to pull back from doing something that he was committed to do was like trying to control a raging hurricane.

A very small part of Mycroft hoped that maybe, just maybe, something would come along to distract his little brother from his mission, but something told him to get ready for the storm that was coming.

* * *

><p>Sherlock was certainly not kidding with his plans to "bring extra playthings" for Winston.<p>

Though the cat took more to sleeping and sitting around than playing, Sherlock had made sure that he wouldn't lack for anything should he suddenly feel the urge to let loose some energy. The once posh, clean and organized sitting room of Mycroft's home slowly became engulfed with toys of all different sizes, shapes and colors. Soon enough, walking through the sitting room turned into a theoretical game of hopscotch to avoid tripping on something. But Winston seemed to love the attention and all of his gifts, and since the furniture stayed in tact, who was Mycroft to complan?

Things seemed like they were going smooth enough. But Sherlock still had one more trick up his sleeve.

"You're supposed to be in Bath on a case." Mycroft moved aside to let his little brother in the house one rainy evening.

"My, you really are getting slow. Solved it an hour ago, it was barely a four."

"Well, make this quick, I'm very busy- what is that in your arm?" Mycroft's eyes slid up to Sherlock, who was slyly grinning as though he was the cat that had gotten the cream. "Oh, Sherlock, for the love of - you know, over the years, I've silently catered to your ridiculous sense of curiosity whether I liked it or not. But this," Mycroft pointed to the plant. "Isn't going to happen."

"Oh, come now, it's just a little fresh catnip, Mycroft," Sherlock said as he set the plant down on the coffee table. Winston lifted his head from where it rested to stare at his new gift. "It's not going to hurt him- in fact, he may not even react to it at all. The reaction to catnip is hereditary-"

"Sherlock-"

"Only two out of three cats are born with the gene that responds to catnip, so there's at least a thirty-three percent chance that nothing will happen-"

"_Sherlock_."

"I'm currently toying with the idea of a blog entry about the effects of aphrodisiacs on the feline brain and I need a test subject to observe. And who else should I use but our very own Winston?"

" 'Our' Winston?"

"Okay, 'your' Winston-"

"He's not my cat-"

"He lives here and you take care of him, what do you call that?"

"Habitually coexisting. And I only 'take care of him' because I will never hear the end of it if I so much as do anything less-"

"Since when have you ever cared about Mum hounding you to do anything?"

"I don't, but I refuse to give her an inch to even accuse me of-"

They looked to see Winston chewing noisily on a catnip leaf, snorting and sneezing as he practically buried his face in the leaves. To Mycroft's insane annoyance, Sherlock looked absolutely pleased with himself. "There, see?" he said. "He's going to go straight back to sleep after he's done. Trust me."

After a few minutes, Winston was dashing all around the sitting room at high speed, knocking anything and everything that he flew by over. Sherlock watched from the corner in utter childish glee, obviously cataloging every little detail that he could to file away for later. Mycroft sighed tiredly.

"If he breaks something, you will owe me."

"I'll pay you whatever I have to – this is hilarious," Sherlock said as Winston dashed around the corner again to pause and arch his back, looking around wildly. Before anyone could say anything, he was off again and something shattered from the direction of the kitchen.

"That was my favorite glass," Mycroft said tiredly.

"And now it's not."

Before Mycroft could reply, Winston ran into the sitting and hopped into his bed, taking a seat to watch the humans that were studying him with eyes that were as big as saucers. Sherlock flopped down on the sofa –the sound of which spooked the cat and made him dash off yet again. For a few minutes, Winston ran laps all through the halls and sitting room until he came up to Mycroft with a stuffed blue mouse that he had taken to mutilating in his mouth, dropping it by his feet.

"Yes, I'm sure that you're quite proud to have killed a stuffed mouse," he said flatly. "Your gift is thoughtful, but I have no use for it."

Winston's mane puffed out and he held his head high, his eyes seeming to glow in the dim light of the sitting room. Sherlock turned his head to look at them. "Look, you offended him."

The statement almost made Mycroft choke on his drink. "I never thought I would see the day when you would actually argue for a cat and his feelings. And I didn't offend him-"

"Yes, you did. You turned away his gift."

"As I recall, cats usually bring animals that were actually once alive as gifts."

"He's making do with what he has. Besides, this is cleaner; he's only thinking of you and your reservations."

Mycroft felt his face fall flat, his eyes narrowing. "You're having entirely too much fun with this."

"Yes, I am." Sherlock beamed and lie back on the sofa. "This is a one-in-a-lifetime opportunity; I have to make the most of it."

"Of course you do." With those last words, the room fell silent. Winston moved to the middle of the rug and lie down to sleep and the men went back to their programmed routines, Sherlock on his phone and Mycroft back in the world of his books.

And for the first time in a long time, the brother silently co-existed in the same space.

* * *

><p>Mycroft turned over and felt a mass of fur cover his entire face.<p>

"Winston," he said sleepily. "I thought we agreed that you belong at the end of the bed, not by the pillow." He pulled back to look at the cat, who reached out to give him a soft tap on the nose with one of his black paws. "I swear," he muttered as he sat up. "I don't know why I deal with you." After countless nights of trying to convince Winston that being on the floor was so much better than being on the bed, Mycroft had given up and deemed a corner of the bed with a sheet covering it as "Winston's Spot".

The cat had yet to listen and actually stay in it a whole night, but Mycroft chose to overlook that for the sake of his nerves.

As Mycroft took a seat in his armchair in the sitting room to scan through the morning papers, he felt a thump on the arm of the chair.

"Down," he said without looking away from the paper. But he was forced to move the paper aside as Winston practically shoved his way into his lap and took a seat, staring up at him as though he was waiting for something.

Of course he wanted to be pet – what else could he possibly want? It was the only logical conclusion. But Mycroft didn't pet cats; he just didn't do it. In all of his life, he had only touched one animal willingly and that was more than twenty years ago. But maybe if he gave Winston a pat on the head, he would see that as good enough and be gone. Yes, he could handle that. One pat. Just one.

As Mycroft reached to touch Winston's head, the doorbell rang and he almost shot up to his feet, Winston landing on his feet as he tumbled to the ground. With speed, Mycroft went to the door and opened it to see a woman seemingly about the height of a tree stump, her purple dress a shocking contrast to the pure white hair that graced the top of her head. She adjusted her glasses on her nose.

"Mycroft Holmes?"

"Yes?" he replied, hoping he didn't sound too…flustered or something.

"My name is Charlotte Hughes. I was a friend of Rhonda's."

"I'm sorry, who?"

"Mrs. James," she clarified. "I was told that your mother brought Rhonda's prize Persian, Sir Snickers, here to stay until everything was sorted with her will and house. Well, she's left him to me and I've come to collect him."

Mycroft opened his mouth and shut it quickly. _You knew this was coming eventually_, he reminded himself. "Come in," he said politely, moving aside to let Charlotte waddle in. Winston stared at them as they came into the sitting room.

"If you need a carrier for him-"

"Oh, I brought one, it's in the car." Charlotte looked Winston over, leaning down to gently grab his face and examine him closer. "Looks as though you took decent enough care of him." Mycroft clenched his jaw. "With some cleaning up, he'll be ready for the show ring again in no time." Charlotte turned around with a smile. "I'll be back in a minute, going to grab the carrier." She waddled past him and out of the house. A pause passed before Mycroft cleared his throat.

"I told you that you would be going away one day," he said simply as he looked to the wide-eyed Winston. "Did you really believe that you were going to live here forever?"

Winston blinked and mewed softly.

"I'm sure you'll feel right at home back in the show ring. You belong there, you know…doing whatever show cats do."

Heavy footsteps came back into the sitting room. "Here we are," Charlotte said cheerfully. "Would you mind helping me get him in here?"

Winston put up a bit of a fight, but after some coaxing and pushing, he was in the carrier and the door shut with a sharp _clack_. As Charlotte fanned herself to recover from the sudden burst of activity, Mycroft spotted a certain blue mouse with one eye and the nose missing.

"Oh, I suppose you should take this." He leaned down to pick it up and held it out to her.

"That's all right, dear, he'll have plenty of new toys to play with at my house." She wrinkled her nose at the mouse and Mycroft drew it back.

"Of course he will. No need for this, then," he agreed politely. He escorted her and Winston to the door.

"I'll be off, then. Thank you for your time, Mr. Holmes."

Mycroft nodded curtly and Charlotte turned away to waddle down the walkway, Winston looking out from his carrier to Mycroft with those bright orange eyes. The deduction hit him so fast that he almost didn't recognize what it was, but as the carrier disappeared into the car and the starting engine broke the silent air, it sunk in as to what Winston's look was telling –or more asking- him:

_Why are you letting her take me away?_

As Mycroft turned away to walk back inside, he shut the door behind him and started to gather the various cat toys scattered around the floor to put them in a box for storage. At least he wouldn't have to worry about tripping over them in the middle of the night. And thank goodness there would be no more fur decorating every single piece of clothing that he owned. And that blasted Cat Genie could finally perish to the darkest pit of hell with its ridiculously long cleaning cycles.

Yes, life was finally going to go straight back to normal.

As Mycroft finished cleaning up, he picked up the blue mouse that Winston so loved to torture and he felt a very light pang of something…something unfamiliar go through him. Quickly, he began to go through the catalogue of his memories to match up the foreign intruder and immediately, Sherlock and Redbeard came to his mind. It puzzled him; what in the world did his little brother and the deceased family pet have to do with this?

But he took the time to really dwell on what his mind spat at him, peeling back each thought as though the whole thing was an onion and he was trying to get to the center of it. All throughout their childhood at home, Mycroft watched as Sherlock and Redbeard grow so close that it was as though the dog was actually a human, another child in the Holmes household. By the time Redbeard died, Mycroft could tell that a part of Sherlock died with him. How an animal could become such a part of one's life was truly…fascinating.

Mycroft looked around his sitting room, once pristine and orderly in a controlled state of disarray, Winston's mark all over the place. The room was just as much the cat's as it was his. As though someone had hit in the back of the head, Mycroft found the center of the 'onion' and he looked back down at the mouse, slowly putting it in the box on top of the other toys.

Suddenly, the house seemed to feel...a little more empty.

* * *

><p><em>To be continued...<em>


	3. Chapter Three

**Chapter Three **

"Where's Winston?"

"Gone."

John paused in his roaming around the sitting room and looked to Sherlock, who had been unpacking the sack of cat treats that he had brought along with them to try on Winston's picky palate. "The woman that he was promised to in Mrs. James's will came by yesterday and took him," Mycroft continued.

John cleared his throat to break the silence that followed the announcement. "Well, I'm sure that he'll be very happy in his new home."

"Yes, he will," Mycroft replied dryly without looking up from the document in his hands. John tried to gauge Sherlock's reaction, but Sherlock had turned his back to them and was packing away the cat treats again.

"Going to get another pet then?"

"No." Mycroft shut the file and neatly tucked it away in his briefcase. "Having Winston around quite took care of whatever urges I had to have a pet."

"Ah, okay-"

"We should go back to the pet shop and get a refund for these cat treats," Sherlock said suddenly as he whirled around to face them. "And we better get to Scotland Yard for that business Lestrade called us about earlier."

"What business-"

"The business." Sherlock practically shoved John in the direction of the front door.

"Uh, see you later, I guess, Mycroft," John called over his shoulder.

"Until next time," Mycroft's voice said politely, the slam of the front door cutting off whatever else he was going to say.

* * *

><p>"Mycroft didn't want to give up Winston."<p>

"What do you mean?" John asked as he typed up yet another case to publish on his blog. "He seems okay about it."

Sherlock made a noise of frustration. "Once again, John, you fail to see what's right in front of you."

"Yes, of course I do," John said with a sigh, pausing in his typing to look around the screen to Sherlock, who was sprawled out on the sofa, his arms flung gracefully all over the place.

"All while we were growing up, Mycroft barely acknowledged Redbeard's existence. My dog from childhood," Sherlock elaborated before John could interrupt. "But this was different. You didn't see them together - it was like some kind of twisted match made in Heaven. Mycroft talked to Winston like he was a human, gave him commands and orders like he was one of his minions. I'm convinced that Winston knows things that no one else on this Earth will ever know, secrets that could probably bring the whole world to war."

"I'm not following where you're going with this," John said slowly.

"Of course you're not- look, the point is Mycroft cared enough about that cat to give him the time of day. If he didn't want him around, he would've seen to it that Winston went somewhere else right after Mum left him there."

John sighed and leaned back in his chair. "Okay, so let's just say that Mycroft actually cared about Winston. What did you expect him to do when the woman came to collect him, for him to tell her no? If Winston was promised to her then that's that, Sherlock. If Mycroft cares just as much as you say he does, then he was right to give Winston over." Sherlock sat up and grabbed his mobile, his fingers flying all over the screen. "Besides, we both know that he hardly has the time or the patience to take care of a cat long-term. I say he did the right thing."

Sherlock didn't reply, but his phone chimed and his fingers flew in a frenzy yet again. John shook his head and went back to typing. A part of him couldn't actually begin to believe that Mycroft, the man who seemed like a walking, breathing block of ice, would actually be able to care about a cat. It was hard enough to wrap his mind around the fact that Mycroft cared about Sherlock in his own twisted, mental way; adding a cat to the mix just served to confuse him even more.

Normal people cared about animals, sure, but Mycroft Holmes was far from ordinary.

* * *

><p>Thankfully, it was rather easy for Mycroft to forget about Winston's departure over the weeks that passed. The Georgia project took every spare moment of his attention, and through all the confusion and planning, it never once occurred to him that Anthea had stopped asking after Winston's well-being. In fact, she seemed to make herself rather sparse when the conversation turned to anything outside work, but Mycroft didn't have the time to mull over her reasoning. Perhaps it was better that way, anyway. More work got done without the extra fluff of personal lives.<p>

Mycroft walked into his house after a particularly long day, rubbing his sore, burning eyes as he put away his umbrella and briefcase. An endless cycle of sleep, work, sleep, work, sleep-

A familiar mew sounded from somewhere in the house. Turning around, Mycroft felt his jaw almost drop to the floor as Winston practically jogged toward him from the sitting room, his fur rippling gracefully as the breeze of his sprint moved over him. With abandon, he rubbed himself against Mycroft's legs, his purrs echoing all around the foyer.

"How did you - didn't I just-" He walked into the sitting room and Winston followed closely behind with soft chattering mews. A part of him was ready to give Sherlock a scolding for the ages, but at the sound of heels walking around the kitchen and the faint smell of perfume, he fell silent in shock. Anthea rounded the corner and leaned against the wall, her face extremely serious.

"What-" Mycroft looked to Winston and back to Anthea. "What is... 'Sir Snickers' doing here?"

"Well, first of all, if I'm not mistaken, his name's Winston," Anthea said. "And as for why he's here – Sherlock informed me a few weeks ago that a group of people were arrested on grounds for participating in illegal fur trade in China. When I further looked into it, it turns out that Charlotte was one of those people. She had sold Winston off for two thousand pounds."

Winston rolled on his back to show Mycroft his stomach, his tail sweeping across the carpet.

"He was supposed to be collected last night by his new owners, but I put in a call to security at Heathrow to have them arrested when they came through. Turns out going with one of their officers wasn't a complete waste of time," she added as she turned on the phone in her hand to type something.

"Technically," she continued as her fingers clicked and moved across the Blackberry with speed. "Winston is mine. I have all of his pedigree and registration papers, so I'll be taking him to live with me unless you have something to say about that?" She clicked the phone off and looked up again. Mycroft looked between her and Winston a few times. "All right how about this? I'll leave him here for the night and you can give me your final decision tomorrow."

"Uh-" Mycroft trailed off and looked to Winston, who was sitting and serenely staring at him. A thousand different things had filtered through his mind to say and as much as he wanted to make himself speak, his mouth felt completely paralyzed.

"I'll be by in the morning, then. Oh, by the way, I found the box with his toys and things. It's in the spare room and I set up the Cat Genie again for you." With a coy smile, she walked past them. "Don't be up too late, now."

The front door shut with a soft slam and Mycroft sighed after a few seconds.

"Well…you're back, then." Winston mewed loudly in confirmation. "I daresay you probably wouldn't have enjoyed becoming a purse, so you've been spared from that fate at least." Mycroft went to sit down in his chair and Winston followed to lie in the mound of blankets that Anthea had put back.

_Back to the way things were_, _then,_ he thought to himself as the purring of the content cat pressed against his ears.

* * *

><p>Later that night, as Mycroft sat in bed and read, a soft thump by his arm made him look up.<p>

"Well, now, you've finally woken up," he said as he closed the book. Winston immediately began to purr and with a boldness that surprised even Mycroft, he climbed up and promptly sat down on Mycroft's chest, folding his front legs under his body as his purr grew even louder. Hesitantly, Mycroft ran his hand down the length of the cat's back, unsure of what exactly to say or do. Though part of him was tempted to throw Winston off, a part of him was…well, it actually _liked_ having a cat sitting on his chest. It was almost as if…Winston didn't want to leave and was trying to convince Mycroft in his own way to let him stay.

Maybe there was some truth behind the famous saying of 'you don't choose the cat; the cat chooses you…'

"So you really want to stay here, do you?"

Winston gently bumped his forehead against Mycroft's chin. A thousand different protests hit him at once: _no time, not an animal person, the sofa, the carpets_. But among those arguments were counters:_ cats don't take much time, Winston's behaved enough, clip his claws- _

"In that case," Mycroft mused after a minute, "there's one thing that has to happen first..."

* * *

><p>Mycroft opened the front door to see his parents standing on the porch.<p>

"What are you doing here?" he asked suspiciously as Mrs. Holmes quickly kissed his cheek before he could back away.

"We were in town and thought we'd drop by," Mrs. Holmes explained simply as she walked into the house, her husband following closely behind. Mycroft slowly shut the door and he waited for one of his parents to say something as they walked to the sitting room.

It was Mrs. Holmes first.

"Oh, my goodness." She sounded positively shocked. "Is that 'Sir Snickers'?"

Winston mewed loudly and Mr. Holmes let out a hearty laugh that seemed to echo around the entire house.

"I told you he was going to get shaved," he said with a cough. Mycroft walked into the sitting room and toward the scratching post where Winston was sitting and watching the new visitors without seeming embarrassed of his condition.

"Did you really expect me to deal with all that fur?" Mycroft walked to stand next to his parents. "A lion's cut is what it's called. Don't worry, it's perfectly normal for Persians. He has less hairballs and mats, and I have less fur on my clothes. A fair exchange in my opinion"

"But…won't he get cold?" Mrs. Holmes asked as she continued to stare.

"Could always buy him a cat sweater-" Mr. Holmes began to laugh again, his cheeks turning a rosy red from his wheezy chortling. Mrs. Holmes reached to pat Winston's furry head and then ran her hand down his naked body.

"You poor dear," she murmured with as much sympathy as if Winston was one of her own children. Mycroft rolled his eyes and walked to the mini bar. "Did Mrs. James not leave him to anyone in her will?"

"No." _No need to divulge anything._

"Oh, what a shame."

Mr. Holmes reached to pet Winston's head. "We could always take him-" he trailed off at his wife's stare. "Or not," he finished with a somewhat disappointed smile.

"There's no need to concern yourselves with finding him a home. He's staying here."

The living room fell into a stunned silence. "You-you're going to adopt him?" Mrs. Holmes stammered. Mycroft poured himself a drink and nursed it in silence, walking to his chair to take a seat and wait for his parents to reply. "Well, that's- it's splendid that you've decided to keep him."

"Very much so," Mr. Holmes agreed with a nod as he followed his wife to take a seat on the sofa.

"You know, I have to say, I've always felt guilty for not giving you an opportunity to have a pet of your own while growing up. There was Redbeard, but we all know that he was really Sherlock's dog. It's nice that you've finally found a pet to call your own."

Mycroft looked to Winston, who blinked slowly a few times and then moved to lie down again.

_A sign of deep affection._

With an extremely brief smile, Mycroft readied his ears for the endless chatter of his mother's boring life. _At least Winston's easier to watch after than Sherlock_, he thought to himself dryly.

It was the start of something…new.

**The End**

* * *

><p><strong>NOTE: I have to say, this wasn't the ending that I had originally planned, but you know what? I'm always up for some AntheaMycroft friendship because Anthea is a great character canvas to work with. At any rate, I had a great time writing this story and thank you all so much for the support and feedback! **

**To anyone curious about continuation: I don't have any immediate plans for this plot line, but rest assure that Winston has a permanent place in my AU arc, so you might see him pop back up someday!**

**Love you all and thanks again!**

**Georgyann **


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